


symphony

by bangboozle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Gore, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Implied Relationships, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Unhealthy Relationships, i just felt like writing violence oops, slightly plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangboozle/pseuds/bangboozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence for the sake of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	symphony

     The flower of red blooms easily onto his shirt after everything stills, a silent sign of surrender. Crowbar drops to his knees immediately, and Droog puts the gun neatly back into his deck of cards. He approaches his rival with the same expression he wore during all their disputes--a grimace--and walks up to Crowbar as if the sound of the gunshot isn’t echoing painfully in his eardrums like a timpani.

     Crowbar looks up at Droog, an unreadable form on his face that shows how he fails to comprehend the situation. They are the FELT. They outnumber the Crew _exponentially_. They have more powers, more bells and whistles, more fancy instruments. What Crowbar _doesn’t_ understand is painfully obvious: why the bullet is lodged squarely into his chest, and why Stitch isn't fixing him yet.

     Droog isn’t thinking about all that. His sole focus lies on the blood. How it’s brighter than he’d imagined--or seen beforehand--and how much of it there is. It pulses out of Crowbar’s chest, causing a harmonious entwinement with the staccato breaths that leave his lips. Every exhale is cymbals crashing, as if each one punctuates the fact that he’s bleeding out slowly and painfully so his ever-green body is wrapped in red tinsel.

     Why is Droog’s heart beating so hard? Why does he feel so nauseous by looking at something he’s been craving for years now?

     This isn’t what he wants. _Crowbar, stand up already. Don't be this powerless. Don't wait for Stitch to get you out of this one. Be a man._

     He wants Crowbar to _hurt_ , to _suffer_ like his Crew has so many times. He wants Crowbar’s lips to draw away and expose those sharp teeth as he cringes in pain instead of remaining in a firm line like they are now. He wants those green eyes to roll back and blood to trickle gently down Crowbar’s neck, not flow in wide, steady rivulets from his chest. He wants gasps and pants to leave Crowbar’s lips at random instead of at each and every beat of his stopping heart. He wants Crowbar’s body to be wrapped with rope and constricted, not curled into itself in such a pathetic fashion.

     Of course, none of that shows.

     Droog’s smooth, ebony features are melted steel; the opacity making it impossible to read. His cold eyes are trained on the body beneath him, trying his best to analyze what he sees. But he can’t. This can’t be Crowbar, can it? It’s got to be a carbon copy, a useless dummy that even a man of his intellect could fall for. Maybe he drank too much at the bar downtown and Boxcars is carrying him home like a sack of potatoes--he’s probably hallucinating this whole thing.

     It’s not right, and that’s what Droog _hates_ about this. Crowbar is supposed to get back up with an infuriating half-smirk. He’s supposed to retaliate, but now he’s lying there, body twitching, as he lets out more noises that can only be described as _helpless_. This figure is too weak to be Crowbar, and Droog is thoroughly disgusted by it.

     His thin black lips bare sharklike teeth as he pulls out his deck, leafing through it to find the gun again. The seven of Diamonds. A representation of power and accomplishment. Which Droog will be feeling after he pulls the trigger, he’s sure of it. There’s no way a weakling like Crowbar can live through another gunshot at this point; he's lost too much blood. He's a disgrace to the number seven in how he lies, waiting for his white knight Stitch to come and sew him back together again.

     It’s a clean shot--right through the head. Droog isn’t a fan of messes, but he’s caused one now. Ashamed to see a rapidly growing pool of blood on the ground, the man in black lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and drops the lit stick on the deadman, igniting one blaze while the other--inside his mind, beyond the conscience he's never truly had--is satiated.

     The looks on the other leprechauns’ faces are a mixed bag of anger, grief, and disappointment when they rush in and view the aftermath. But Droog sees none of them. He’s out of the mansion before anyone suspects a thing, his head high and his suit unbloodied.

     The symphony has ended, and there is no reprise.

 


End file.
